


Look at my reflection in the mirror (Underneath the power of the light)

by weepingnaiad



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Feels, Fluff, Gratuitous Princess Bride Reference, M/M, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Post-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a quick push of his foot against the wall, Clint surges up, wraps an arm around Phil’s waist and spins them.  He delights in Phil’s surprise and gives an answering grin to his stunned expression.  “Just let it go, babe.  I’m taking care of you and you’re going to like it.”</p><p>A nostalgic throwback to those heady post-Avengers days where Clint was taking care of a healing Phil and all was right with the world (or getting there).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look at my reflection in the mirror (Underneath the power of the light)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fennecfawkes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/gifts).



> **Beta:** My greatest gratitude goes to abigail89, who, as usual, saved me at the very last hour. Thank you, m'dear! Also, I would be remiss if I didn't also credit hitlikehammers who sat me down and got me to finish this! And did so much more besides. As ever, I couldn't have done this without both of you! If you do see errors, they're all on me because I fiddle after they both looked through it.

Clint rubs his eyes and glances at the clock. He’ll give Phil fifteen more minutes, then he’s going after him. Phil’s not even supposed to be working. He’s still not completely healed. Who the hell works while they’re on medical leave?

Apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Phil Coulson, that's who. Clint knows Phil is married to his job. Fury had seen Phil’s nascent dedication and banks on it, uses it every time there's a 'delicate' situation. Phil's the best S.H.I.E.L.D. has, but there's more to it than that. He still believes in heroes, even thinks Clint is one, when the real hero is Phil. He took on Loki one-on-one and damn near paid too high a price for it, too.

That thought makes the anger, the frustration, the helplessness return and Clint shoves it all away. He’s not ready, might never be, to dwell on what had happened. He has his own issues to deal with, still flinches when the evening sky tints everything blue. There’s no shortage of healing needed around here, but Clint will be damned if Phil’s doesn’t come first.

He tosses an empty file folder onto the growing pile on the floor and pulls another file toward him. He’s gotten the hang of Phil’s shorthand and has no trouble sorting the contents, most destined for the incinerator. Clint is filing the rest when the door opens.

Phil is two steps into the room when he stops, eyes wide. “Agent Barton?” he asks in his best Avenger-wrangling voice.

Before Clint can answer, Phil hastily slams the door. “Barton, what the hell are you doing?”

Phil's outburst reveals just how worn out he is. He’s wan, shoulders sagging as his arm hangs limply in the sling. He’ll be fine, Clint keeps telling himself. Won’t need the sling much longer, not once the stitches are out, but the reminder is good. It keeps Phil from overdoing it. Mostly.

“Purging files, for the past six hours,” he explains. “I’m almost done.”

Phil pauses for a moment. He’s exhausted, shouldn’t even be here, but Fury needed him and when Fury calls, Phil answers. “You do know that those drawers were locked for a reason?”

Clint shrugs. “The locks were the easy part. Deciphering your writing? _That_ was hard.”

Phil moves to the desk and leans against it, his arm crossed under the one in the sling as he looks down at the papers strewn over the desk. He’s itching to double-check Clint’s work, but that’d defeat Clint’s whole purpose.

“Barton, all of this, every last scrap, was above your pay grade.”

“So sue me.” Clint stands. “I wasn’t going to sit on my ass all day while you were in meetings that you shouldn’t be in. If I can do this, then you won’t have to when you’re cleared for duty.” If he’s getting a little heated, it’s because he’s unhappy with Fury and he’s still not over the need to take care of Phil. It’s going to be a long time before he’s past that. His words are always a little rushed, a little breathless when he spends too much time alone. Thinking allows him to dwell, and he’s been working hard to _not._ “You need an assistant. And today, it’s me.”

Clint’s leaning on the desk, palms flat on it as he meets Phil’s eyes, dares him to argue.

“Junior agents don’t have the clearance. Neither do you. You _hate_ paperwork. I have to write your sitreps if I want to keep Fury off my case. What are you doing, Barton?"

"Helping you out. And, before you say anything else, I _do_ know how to read and write." He doesn’t need to add the _’keeping close, can’t bear being alone in our place. Was alone too many days.’_

Phil sighs. “Never said you didn’t, but this,” he cocks his head toward the desk. “This’ll get you in hot water and I prefer to keep you out of it.”

“Leave that to me for a change,” Clint says, ducking his head a little to look at Phil from under lowered lashes. “Contrary to popular opinion, I _did_ take care of myself before you showed up.”

The head tilt works and Phil graces Clint with a rare smile. He’s running on empty, his eyes flat and nearly gray, but he’s never looked so good, so _alive_ to Clint. “You make me doubt it, the way you court trouble.”

“You love me this way,” Clint smirks.

“I do.” Phil leans toward the folders on the floor and Clint stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Uh-uh. I clean up my messes.”

“I thought that was _my_ job, Barton.”

“Not today,” Clint says, shaking his head. “Today I’m taking care of you.” He doesn’t give Phil a chance to argue, simply leans the rest of the way forward and kisses him, office rules be hanged. And he’s rewarded by Phil’s lips curving up under his, his good arm uncurling to grip Clint’s bicep.

It’s no secret that Phil loves Clint’s arms. That’s why Clint never covers them unless the mission forces him to. Even in winter, he’ll forgo sleeves under his coat. It’s too rewarding when Phil’s fingers wrap tightly around a bicep, squeezing, gripping, holding on like there’s no tomorrow.

They part, and Clint’s already aroused, half-hard. Phil does that to him. He still shakes his head in disbelief that _he,_ Clint Barton, carnie, can pull those little needy whimpers from Phil Coulson; that _he,_ a simple assassin, can bring Phil Coulson low with only his mouth; that _he,_ orphan and nobody, can be loved by someone as steadfast and true as Phil Coulson. The reality that Phil is _his_ overwhelms Clint at times, makes it hard to contain the feelings. Times like these.

“Clint,” Phil begins, breaking their number one rule. His voice is rough, eyes dark, half with need, half with plain old exhaustion. “I’m fine.”

Clint’s breath catches and he has to clench his jaw to keep from shouting. Instead he meets Phil’s eyes and shakes his head. “Not yet, but you will be. Dammit. You _will_ be.”

His voice shakes and his eyes prick. He is not going to do this again. So he drops to his knees and gathers up the folders, hiding his face until he can regain his composure. When he glances up, he meets Phil’s eyes. “Clint. Come here.”

His first name, spoken in that voice, in the office where Phil never says it, makes Clint ache even worse. But he stands and sets the folders down. Phil reaches for him and tugs him close. “I’m fine,” he whispers and Clint’s whole body seizes. It’d been so close. Too near a thing. He’d almost lost Phil while he’d been oblivious and worse.

Phil spreads his legs and wraps his good arm around Clint’s waist. “Go ahead. Touch me,” Phil murmurs against Clint’s cheek. He turns, slides his lips along a slightly stubbly cheek until their lips meet. The kiss is hard, desperate, aching and Clint whimpers into it. He’s supposed to be taking care of Phil, but he’s doing a piss poor job of it.

The kiss ends because it must, but Clint can’t move, loathes the parting. Instead he rests his head on Phil’s shoulder, lips brushing the skin above his suit collar.

“I’m sorry. I-I just can’t. It’ll take—”

Phil interrupts with a soft laugh. “It’s okay. I get it. Or have you forgotten that it’s usually me that needs the reassurance that you’re alive?”

Clint pulls back, embarrassed. “Well, this side of it sucks.”

“It’s late. Can I at least help—”

“No,” Clint replies, shaking his head. He nudges Phil’s leg and points to a chair in front of the desk. “Sit. Or, preferably, lie down,” he gestures to the sofa. “But you’re not taking over.” In order to make his point, Clint takes Phil by the shoulder and points him away from the desk. He picks up the empty folders and puts them in a box, then carefully re-files what few folders he hadn’t finished purging. The purged papers go in a locked file box. Everything in its place, exactly where Phil would have it. And ready to be dealt with. Later.

When Clint finishes by locking Phil’s drawers, he looks up and sees that Phil has nodded off on the sofa. He’s too thin and pale. He’d definitely overdone it today. Swearing under his breath, he vows to sic Natasha on Fury. But that can wait. Right now, his duty is to Phil.

“C’mon, boss,” Clint gently taps Phil’s shoe with his toe, then presses a hand to his thigh, waking him slowly with deliberate and precise touches. Nothing good comes from startling Phil to awareness. They’d both learned that lesson early on. And Clint knows better; he’s no less twitchy.

~~*~~

Phil’s exhaustion makes him unusually docile and quiet as Clint ushers him out of HQ, leaves him dozing on the drive back to Phil’s apartment. The mansion has more amenities including a bigger bed, but much less privacy. Clint needs time away from the job, from the other Avengers, from the pity and accusation he sees in their eyes, whether real or imagined. Clint needs to take care of Phil. And he’s not allowed to do that at the mansion.

He bundles Phil into the elevator, holding his lover upright as he visibly sags. “I can stand on my own, Barton.”

“Doesn’t look like it to me, sir.”

They keep this separate, their life together removed from their work and it’s damn hard for Clint to remain as casual, as _professional_ as he has. Phil has already allowed him to break a number of rules. Phil understands, but Clint’s unaccustomed to this, an aching pit in his stomach, a Phil-shaped hole in his heart. Phil might be alive and well, and Clint knows this logically, but he needs more time to convince his heart that Phil hadn’t remained dead and gone.

Only when the door closes behind them and the security’s engaged does Agent Phil Coulson become Clint’s lover. And even weakened, still healing, and exhausted, Phil manages to startle Clint by shoving him back against the door with his right arm. In the next instant, he’s pressing the rest of the way forward, and the first soft brush of his lips makes Clint sag in relief. He tugs Phil closer, wraps his arms around his waist and opens to him, allows himself long, heady moments of being fully immersed in Phil’s undivided attention and affection; the kiss lingers, languid sweeps of Phil’s tongue tasting, teasing, reminding Clint once again that he hasn’t lost Phil.

He hates being this fragile, hates that he dwells on those dark hours after he’d been informed that Phil was dead. He’s still angry, so very angry, and it catches him off guard at times. But Phil knows this, knows everything, because Clint babbled his head off in the hospital, talked nonsense, made promises, surprising himself with their passion. And yet, Phil’s been home one month and Clint has done little to make good on those promises. They’re not empty words, they hold a depth of meaning that is truly terrifying to him, but Phil is patient. Has no expectations and never has. He’s always taken Clint as he is. Accepts him and even loves him.

And Clint needs to change that dynamic. He needs to finally move beyond that day, those hours, and look forward. He plans to do that today. Now. Except that Phil is kissing him, turning him inside out, stopping all thought until his head is spinning, heart thundering as he breathes, aching, breathless, suddenly enervated.

Clint pulls back, head hitting the door as he looks at Phil from under heavy eyelids. It’d be so easy to allow Phil to be in charge, to call the shots. But Phil’s wavering on his feet and Clint can’t allow him to be the caretaker once again.

He grins and shakes his head, smirking. “There will be time for that, Coulson, I promise you.”

With a quick push of his foot against the wall, Clint surges up, wraps an arm around Phil’s waist and spins them. He delights in Phil’s surprise and gives an answering grin to his stunned expression. “Just let it go, babe. I’m taking care of you and you’re going to like it.”

Phil wants to argue, but Clint does know a very effective way of shutting him up. They kiss again until Phil’s shoulders droop. He’s given in, so Clint runs with the tacit permission.

It’s easy work to usher Phil into their bedroom where he deposits his lover on the unmade bed. Clint isn’t the best housekeeper, that’s Phil's thing, but the sheets are clean and the laundry’s done and there are groceries in the cupboards. If he enlisted some help to manage those things these past weeks, Clint’s not above knowing his limitations.

Phil stays where he’s put, a slight smile curving his lips as Clint undresses him from the bottom up. It’s easier saving the shoulder and chest for last. Plus, Clint enjoys having Phil passive beneath him. Phil's not a demanding lover, but he has a way of turning Clint's plans upside down. One minute Clint's ostensibly in charge, then suddenly he'll find himself flat on his back, recipient of Phil's intensity and focus, and Clint can't remember his own name let alone any plans he might have had.

But now Phil is too tired and physically incapable of pulling the rug out from under Clint. And Clint's taking advantage of that. He tosses Phil's shiny black dress shoes toward the closet, then slides the left sock off. Phil sighs as Clint presses his thumbs into the arch. He drops a kiss to Phil's big toe before stripping off the right sock, that foot getting the same firm massage which makes Phil sigh and stretch his right arm above his head as he wiggles his toes.

"Feel good?" Clint asks.

"Mmmm-hmmm," Phil's already non-verbal which means Clint better get a move on or Phil will be asleep before he's showered.

Clint slides his hands up Phil's trouser legs, massages his calves, then his thighs before reaching for his belt. One of the things Clint can do with his eyes closed is get Phil out of his pants. He's not sure he should be as proud of that fact as he is, but it comes in handy as he leans up to kiss Phil, then instructs, "Lift up a bit, babe," and the pants and boxer-briefs are shoved down.

Clint nips at Phil's lip and his eyes fly open. "There you are."

Phil's smile stretches slow and wide. He's drowsy and soft, rumpled and looking good enough to eat. "Hey, yourself."

"I figured you'd like a shower, boss, but it ain't happening if you fall asleep on me."

Phil blinks a couple of times. He's quiet, giving it consideration. "Gonna make it worth my while, Agent?"

Clint ducks his head, to hide the blush. He still gets work and home mixed up; but hasn't yet called Phil 'lover' or 'babe' in a professional setting, thank god! He licks his lip, looks at Phil from under lowered lashes, voice hoarse at the thought of making it worth Phil's time. Not like that exact scenario hadn't been his wank fodder for the first couple of years he'd worked with Phil. "It'd be my great pleasure, sir," he answers.

Phil inhales sharply, eyes closing. "Dammit, Clint," he swears, then is struggling to sit up.

"Whoa!" Clint says, putting his palm on Phil's chest. "Where's the fire?"

"In my pants," Phil says, nearly purring. "Thanks to you."

"Okay, boss. I got this." And Clint strips his pants off, tossing them aside before offering a hand to help Phil sit up. "Let me get your shirts off."

Phil is about to protest, but Clint glares at him and he goes quiet. Clint knows how hard it is for Phil to accept help, to need any help at all. He hates feeling weak, that tendency made worse by all the past weeks where he was truly helpless.

Clint's patience had been stretched thin during Phil's convalescence, but they'd worked out a system, managed an understanding that allows Phil his dignity while never debasing Clint's and they'd made it through and beyond. And here they are, with Phil sleepy and pliant beneath Clint, eyes liquid and heavy, so much love and need and warmth shining from them that Clint is rendered speechless, mute from the overwhelming urge, the sudden desperation to cleave tight, claim and never let go.

Clint stops on the last button, he twirls the small ivory disk between finger and thumb until Phil reaches out, wraps a cool palm around Clint's hand. "You okay?" he asks. Clint looks up, nods, tongue thick.

"I'm okay, love. I'm here," Phil rasps. "And getting stronger every day."

Clint offers a shaky smile, but doesn't say yea or nay. He slips the button through its hole, moves on to the cuffs. Then with long practiced moves, he and Phil synchronize the push-pull, the cautious twist-turn to remove the sling and shirt, leaving Phil sitting in undershirt and boxer-briefs. He's still amazing like this: steadfast, gorgeous, and strong, but no longer unassailable. The inviolable armor he'd been wrapped in is gone. Now he's simply Phil, Clint's lover, Clint's _world._

"Up with you," Clint says tugging Phil to stand. "Shower--"

"Alone?" Phil asks, pleading a bit as he does that utterly adorable pout: eyes slightly wide, lips curved up in a moue, with an occasional slow blink to complete the picture, as if Clint needed any urging to shower with his lover.

"Stop it, you. Not alone," he says, lips twitching to keep from cracking into a wide smile. "Oh my god! You're ridiculous." The smile breaks through. "And adorable."

Phil ducks then looks up at Clint, smile shy, cheeks and ear tips pinking. "Not adorable."

Chuckling -- he's so taken by this man -- Clint wraps his arm around Phil's waist to propel him forward, into the bathroom. "I rest my case. You are a menace, mister."

Phil leans against the counter while Clint adjusts the water temp. He catches Phil ogling his ass in the mirrored shower door and shakes his head. "Some super-spy you are," he mutters. 

"Hey! I am playing the recovering, wounded soldier _perfectly._ " Phil protests half-heartedly.

Clint turns. "Too perfectly. Cut it out. I want my amazing badass partner back." He strips out of his clothes, the tug of his t-shirt muffling his _'oh shit'_ of embarrassment at letting those words slip.

Phil reaches for him, pulls him close. "Clint."

Clint sighs, can't make himself meet Phil's eyes. He really needs to get a handle on his mouth.

"Clint," Phil says, voice a little firmer, but still a bit cajoling.

"Phil. Just. Don't mind me." Clint still hasn't met Phil's gaze directly. He's met their twice-reflected stare, but cringes at his neediness and the way he can't shut the fuck up.

Phil sighs softly, tugs Clint close, their bare chests brushing until Clint's nipple drags over the raised scar on Phil's left pectoral. Clint sucks in a harsh breath and Phil's arms tighten.

"We're going to run out of hot water," Phil reminds. "Not like this is on Stark's dime here."

Clint straightens, his fingers tracing the raised, puckered flesh marring Phil's chest. "How are you here?" he asks, voice filled with awe.

Phil takes Clint's hand and shakes his head. "I don't know and I don't care. But I am. I am also looking forward to that steamy shower you promised me."

Clint shakes off the melancholy and offers a weak grin. "Right. Wash your back if you wash mine?"

"Wouldn't dream of anything less."

Clint watches Phil step under the spray, then the shower door slides closed leaving Clint alone with his reflection and his dire thoughts. He knows he has to let it go. That he's going to ruin this if he keeps dwelling on what might have been. Gripping the counter, he ducks his chin to his chest and squeezes his eyes tight.

"Clint?" Phil calls out.

"Coming!"

He grabs two fresh towels and sets them on the counter before joining Phil. It's not the huge expanse of tile and jets that his place at the mansion has, but this forces them close. He ducks under the spray, laughing when Phil splutters as he drags him under too.

They stand there, water running into their faces and Clint smiles. "I know this is stupid. And not romantic, but I can't help myself. I--"

"What?" Phil prompts when Clint stops mid-thought.

"Marry me?"

Phil grins, that little half smile, but his eyes are so blue, wide and crinkling at the corners. "Of course. When it's legal. Unless you wanted to run away to Canada right now?"

"I think I just want it to be S.H.I.E.L.D.-official. I don't care about the rest."

Phil leans out of the spray and pulls Clint with him. "What's this about?"

"I love you. Can't I want to marry you, too?"

"Not arguing about that. I already said yes. But there's something else going on."

Clint huffs out a breath and ducks his head. He nips at Phil's collar bone, which is far too prominent. Then swears at himself for even thinking that.

"Clint? Love?"

"They didn't tell me," he finally says, voice barely audible over the spray of water.

"Clint?" Phil sounds concerned and Clint doesn't like it when he makes Phil worry. "Look at me."

Clint lifts his eyes and nods. "They didn't tell me. That you'd died. Natasha didn't know, either. And no one told _me._ Because I…"

"Not for the reason you've concocted, I'm sure."

"I didn't concoct anything. I didn't know until Tony and then Steve--"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh." Clint is unhappy and tries to fidget out of Phil's arms, but Phil holds fast. "The thing is, they didn't have to tell me."

"Nick did, though."

"Later. You'd already _died._ "

"And then I was back."

"But I wasn't there!"

"If I promise that we'll make it official tomorrow, will you relax and let me wash your back?"

Phil takes Clint's silence as his consent and nudges him more upright. In the end, the shower is less about Clint taking care of Phil and so much more about Phil reassuring Clint. He is there and whole, maybe not as strong and not fully healed, but he can still easily manhandle Clint this way and that. And Clint goes until they're both soaped and rinsed and half-hard.

"I can take care of that for you?" Phil offers.

"Yeah, I'll let you do that," Clint replies. Phil's reassurance, his touch, his confidence eases Clint's fears. They'll not go in an instant, but having Phil teasing and being in charge, even if it's just during a shower, goes a long way toward making Clint feel somewhat normal.

He shuts off the water and steps out before urging Phil into the fluffy towel he is holding open.

"I can dry myself," Phil says, sounding infinitely amused.

"Of course you can. But let me?"

"As you wish," Phil says, then adds, "farmboy."

Clint swallows, then gazes up at Phil. "Sap."

"I love you. I'm sorry they didn't tell you." He cups Clint's chin in his palm and brings their lips together in a chaste, sweet kiss. "But I am here, and I swear, no more taking on crazed gods on my own."

Clint dries Phil efficiently, even manages to keep the swipes along his back and pectorals the same tender touch, but without lingering.

When he turns his back to hang up the towel, Phil tugs at the one around Clint's waist and pulls him back to front and whispers against his ear, "Now can I take care of this for you?"

He's teasing, rubbing his palm over Clint's semi, but he knows just what he's doing and Clint can't hold back a groan. Which makes Phil grin. Clint can feel the smile against his neck. "Smug ass," he says.

"I know what you like, love. And you've been entirely too celibate."

"I haven't--"

"A rushed handjob in the shower is not sex."

Clint turns in Phil's arms. He refuses to look away, but he can feel his cheeks heat. "How did you--"

"Know? I pay attention to you. I always have. And, believe me, there is a difference to your smile, to the way you hold your shoulders. Hell, even your neck is looser when you've had an orgasm."

The flush creeps higher across Clint's cheeks until his ears heat. He tries to duck his eyes, but Phil doesn't let him. "Uh-uh. I think it's sweet. But I would have been happy to take care of this," he flattens his palm over Clint's length, "for you."

"I didn't know how to ask."

"You never do. You don't ask for you. That's why I started watching and haven't stopped."

Clint blinks a few times as the realization of what Phil is saying sinks in. "You watched me before we were lovers?"

Phil's eyes shine. "Do you blame me? Gorgeous agent with no self-preservation instincts. You needed watching. And what's more? You deserved the care."

Clint looks at Phil, wonders what he'd done to deserve this glorious man, when Phil shakes his head. "Still don't see what I do. We'll work on it."

"Um."

"Nope. Enough talking. I've got an erection and we're celebrating with mutual handjobs. Then take out." Phil gives Clint a wicked once over, making Clint flush all the way to his toes.

So much for Clint being in charge. Though he isn't complaining.

They kiss all the way to the bed where Clint bounces once before sprawling on his back, making every bit of skin available that Phil demands. The position works well -- too well, Clint's aching and raring to go in nothing flat, it'd been _months_ , give him a break! -- until Phil tries to switch arms and stumbles.

"C'mon, babe, let me lead," Clint cajoles while easing them around, until Phil's splayed beneath him; his pupils are blown wide, skin flushed a bright pink, and his thinning hair is mussed and fluffed. In short, he's gorgeous and adorable and good enough to eat and Clint does before he has the brilliant idea that he can straddle Phil's chest and maybe, carefully, gently, get a little pleasure while he's giving it.

He gets a bit lost in tasting Phil -- did he mention it'd been _months_? -- the tang, the weight, the feel on his tongue, until Phil nudges him back and up a bit and then _'Oh shit!'_ it has been too long. They both get off but not with their former grace and aplomb. In fact, they're both laughing and smeared with come when Clint twists and faces Phil once again.

Joy bubbles up in Clint's chest as he wipes a creamy blob off Phil's chin.

Phil's eyes are a bit soft-focused, a little hazy and he's still flushed, but he's grinning like a loon and Clint has to kiss him, full on tongue and all, uncaring of the mess.

Chuckling, Phil kisses Clint's nose. "We need another shower."

"Nuh-uh. We're getting takeout and eating in bed."

"We'll end up stuck together."

Clint leans over and opens the nightstand drawer where he pulls out wet wipes. "Got it covered, boss."

Phil's laugh fills all the remaining cracks in Clint's heart. "Of course you do."

They eat Thai in bed and Phil doesn't bitch once about the mess. Clint even cleans up before spooning behind his lover and pulling him close. Phil gives a contented sigh and dozes off, Clint soon joining him.

And it’s not a magical fix-it, times like these, between them; it’s not an overnight cure-all, but they're getting there. A little bit further every day.

It’s a work in progress.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N2:** As ever my brilliant and supportive title whisperer pointed me toward The Killers "Shot At The Night". Thanks, my dearest, hitlikehammers.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** These are Marvel and Whedon and ABC's characters used in the spirit of creative commons. I promise to return them with smiles on.


End file.
